Free Born of the Sun by Joan Wolf Page A

Ceawlin said thoughtfully, “we have always blamed the way Edwin is on Guthfrid. What if it is the other way around?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean we have always thought that Edwin hates me because he had been taught to by his mother. But suppose she hates me only because Edwin hated me first.”
    “But why?” Sigurd said again. “He is the heir. You do not stand in his way.”
    “It’s the way he is,” Ceawlin replied. “He cannot bear anyone to share the sun with him. That is all.”
    The dawn was beginning to streak the sky with a pale gray light when the fort of Beranbyrg came into view. Ceawlin and Sigurd dismounted and handed their horses to grooms. As Saxon warriors, they would fight on foot. Then the two young men began to check their weapons: the large sword, the lighter spears, the sax dagger both wore thrust through their belts. Before they donned the mittened mail arm covering that would protect their sword arms, Ceawlin held out his hand to Sigurd. The two boys clasped their hands together strongly. Neither spoke but both knew what the other was thinking. Then they finished putting on their mail. They did not wear helmets, as the West Saxons always fought bareheaded.
    All around them men were doing the same things they were. The sky was not growing brighter. The day was damp and Ceawlin thought it was probably going to rain. He listened intently but could hear nothing from inside the dirt walls of the fort. Could the Britons really be so unaware of the coming attack?
    Cynric’s command began to assemble in front of the king. This attack force would take the brunt of the fighting, as the king wanted to draw most of the defenders’ attention to one side of the fort while the other two commands got over the wall quickly.
    Ceawlin was not surprised when it began to drizzle. The early-dawn air was cold as well as damp. The visibility was poor, a factor which was to their advantage. Through the grayness Ceawlin saw Cynric walking up and down beside his men. Ceawlin exchanged one more look with Sigurd and went to stand in the front line of his father’s command. This way, he would be one of the first over the wall. Cynric saw him and smiled.
    It was the king’s command that was to initiate the attack. They waited fifteen minutes to give Cutha and Cuthwulf an opportunity to circle the fort and find their positions. Ceawlin thought that his father would never give the signal for them to go. Woden, he prayed in a burst of heartfelt intensity, give me glory. Then the signal came and the wedge of men under Cynric began to move.
    The rain was coming down harder now. Ceawlin ran forward, light on his feet even with the weight of armor and weapons. As the Saxons scrambled into the ditch, a second rain, this one of javelins, began to fall from behind the earthen bank in front of them. So the British had not been unprepared. Ceawlin raised his shield to cover his head and ran swiftly onward. Without once looking back, he began to climb the bank.
    The javelins thudded off his shield. Behind him he could hear men grunting with the effort of the climb. The rain was making the dirt slippery and he concentrated on keeping his footing. Then he was at the top.
    Men were lined up behind the protection of the bank. He saw that there were several rows of them and that they all seemed to be staring up at him with open mouths. For a brief, glorious moment he was alone on the top of the wall. Then he threw back his own head, gave his father’s great war cry, and, sword drawn, leapt into the men below. As steel clashed on steel, he could hear the sound of his men coming behind him.
    A blade was hurtling toward his neck and he raised his shield to protect himself. Then he thrust with his own sword, quick and deadly, and a man went down. Ceawlin grinned. There were more Saxons behind him now and, badly outnumbered, they were being hemmed in against the bank. “Forward, children of Woden!” Ceawlin shouted, and, slinging